


ready?

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Complicated Relationships, Domestic, First Kiss, M/M, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 21:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14777261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Set directly post S2.06: The High Road.Seeing John in a suburban setting has set Harold's mind turning over and over.





	ready?

Harold sits in front of the computer, listening to Zoe speak with the wife. _“That one moment changed your whole life_ ,” Connie Wyler says quietly, and Harold hears Zoe’s soft, rueful laugh. It is quiet in the library without Bear here, bringing him his tennis ball or slobbering over the doughnuts he’d bought, without John hovering over his shoulder. The suburbs… So close, and yet so far away.

“ _I can honestly say I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”_ Harold feels his lip twitch as he lays his chin on his hands, feeling something tug in his gut. Zoe is right, of course. She wouldn’t be here were it not for John, and yet…

Well. Nor would any of them.

♠ --- ♣ --- ♠

Harold doesn’t say a thing when John slips into the passenger seat next to him, after the heist is through.

He doesn’t say anything as he drops John back off at this apartment.

He keeps silent until John comes back from meeting with the Wylers and overseeing the pack-up of the objects in the house. Bear rushes into the library, launching himself at Harold’s lap, and Harold lets out a sharp sound of almost-pain as his lower back twinges at the sudden lunge. Bear whines apologetically, and Harold gently pats his neck as he leans back in the seat.

John smiles, adjusting his cuffs where they settle on his wrists, and Harold glances down at John’s hands, steady and strong.

“He missed you,” John says, sotto voce. There is a quiet significance to the words, and Harold smiles shakily, patting the dog’s warm flank before Bear pulls back and skitters across the wood floor, dropping heavily onto his bed and sprawling on his back. Harold can see him shift on the soft cushioning, pressing his scent back into it where it has faded in the few days he’s been gone.

“I missed him too,” Harold replies in an equally quiet tone. John’s thin lips quirk into a smile. Why is it so easy, Harold wonders, to use Bear as a surrogate for the affection they wish to level at one another? Why is it so difficult to do it directly?

“I wondered—” Harold stops. Inhales. Better to remain silent. John’s silver brow furrows slightly as he takes a step forward, tilting his head marginally to the side.

“Wondered?” John repeats.

“It’s of no great import,” Harold says, turning his chair away, but John’s hand catches tight on the back of the chair, turning it back toward him. At a glance, Harold knows, someone could easily mistake the dynamic of their unique relationship. So many times, he has seen the subtle shift of understanding in someone’s eyes as they realise Harold is the “boss” and John his _employee_ (such a soft word, so meaningless, truly), but it is more than that. John might subtly push upon Harold’s boundaries, attempt to draw closer where Harold has laid out a clear map of his own territory, but—

In truth, John takes his little increments because Harold allows them to slide. And Harold – Harold knows this, unimpeachably, irrevocably, irreconcilably – that John is content under Harold’s command.

“Wondered?” John repeats again in a delicate tone, as if Harold hadn’t said anything at the first repetition. John’s hand has slid from the chair to Harold’s shoulder, his thumb tracing through the fabric of Harold’s jacket, and like this Harold can smell the slightly sweet, musky scent of the cologne Harold had bought him last Christmas, the cologne John wears every day. Harold’s breath hitches in his throat as he furrows his brow slightly, doing his best to hide his uncertainty.

“I told you,” he says, sharpening his tone. “It is of no import, Mr Reese.”

“Why do you lie to me, Finch?” John asks softly.

“I never lie to you,” Harold replies.

“Tell me what you were wondering, then.” Harold hardens his stare, and he doesn’t think he imagines the way John shifts back slightly, his shoulders loosening, his chin tipping a fraction back. Harold sees even more of his neck than he already can, given that John is standing and Harold is seated before him. Such a strong man, and yet… Such subtle submission. Harold is abruptly aware of precisely how dry his mouth is.

“Mr Reese,” Harold says, very quietly. “What, precisely, do you think you’re doing?”

“Playing the suburban husband,” John replies. He moves to adjust the set of Harold’s collar, smoothing away an imaginary crease. “I was thinking. Playing poker with Zoe. Flirting. Walking the dog. Nothing you couldn’t have done.”

“Providing back-up as you rob a bank?” John shrugs.

“Okay. Maybe one thing.”  Harold laughs, unable to stop himself as the chuckle whispers out from beneath his lips. John is… _Warm_. Harold doesn’t have the greatest circulation, and he is almost glad to settle within this library when the New York summers settle in, where every room is stuffy and warm because they cannot open the windows, but now, in the autumn, where a slight chill settles upon the air? “You don’t think we could have pulled off the married act?”

“You don’t think we’re a little… _Heterosexual_ for that?” John stares down at him, his expression completely neutral. Then, he exhales a short, sharp laugh.

“If you say so,” he murmurs, and he draws his hand away. Harold finds himself astonished by how cold he feels without John’s hand invading his space, John’s hand lingering on his shoulder, and before John can walk across the room Harold’s own hand shoots out without his permission, gripping tightly at John’s wrist. He feels John’s pulse under the flesh there, a slow and steady thrum of blood beneath the surface of his skin, and John’s fingers slide over Harold’s own wrist, dragging over the sensitive flesh where the veins are so close to the surface. Harold swallows.

“You’ve… Before, then?”

“There’s a verb missing from that sentence,” John says lowly, and Harold feels heat rise in his neck and his cheeks, where capillaries vasodilate under the stress of the situation, the excitement, and blood rushes to the surface of the skin, leaving it tinged pink and sensitive.

“Who’s Mr Vocabulary now?” John’s lips quirk up at the edges, and then the hand not clasped awkwardly against Harold’s own reaches out, two of his fingers ghosting featherlight against Harold’s cheek. Harold thinks of Grace, alone in her home, grieving him even now— Harold’s eyes close.

“I don’t have to. If you don’t want me to.”

“I never said I didn’t want you to.” Harold murmurs.

“Good,” John says. Harold can hear his trousers and his shirt rubbing against one another, can feel John’s body lean in closer and toward him, feel John’s hand cup Harold’s cheek properly. He feels the callouses and small scars on John’s palm and fingers, his hand so _warm_ , and Harold cannot help but gasp as he feels the other man’s breath against his own. Harold’s lips are sensitive, and in many ways, he is careful about his sensitivities – Harold is a patient man, and he knows it is best to be temperate, to shy away from hedonism. He is a man tended to little pleasures, small indulgences – pastries in the morning, ice cream in January. John is an indulgence, but he is anything but small. Yet here Harold’s heart beats fast in his chest, pounding underneath his skin, and he lunges a little too fast, adjusting his posture and leaving a tingle of dull pain dragging across his left hip, but he ignores it.

The hand not entwined with John’s tangles itself in the other man’s white shirt, and he presses his lips chastely but _hard_ against John’s mouth, feeling the sting of his stubble against his own bare chin. John’s lips part slightly, inviting him in, and Harold lets out a soft groan of sound as his tongue slides over John’s own, feels the heat of it, the clever, wet smack of John’s mouth against his own. Harold is embarrassed by the heady whine of noise that escapes him, and then—

“Bear,” John chides, and Harold laughs as the dog presses between them, nuzzling his nose against Harold’s belly. Concern shines in those intelligent brown eyes of his, and Harold laughs softly, scratching at his ears.

“Stupid dog,” Harold murmurs with affection.

“It takes him a while,” John murmurs. “But he gets there in the end.” Harold’s lips twitch, dragged sensitive with the other man’s stubble, and Harold reaches up with one hand, touching his finger to his lower lip. It feels flushed with blood, bruised just slightly by the force of Harold’s movement.

“We should walk him,” Harold murmurs. “Together.”

“You want to go for a romantic walk in Central Park, huh?” John smiles, thinly. “See? We can both do the suburban husband act.”

“You don’t belong in the suburbs,” Harold murmurs.

“Nor do you. Let’s go belong somewhere else.” He mutters a short command, sending Bear raring across the floor to run and collect his leash, and Harold watches John as he crouches on the ground, taking the leash and gently clipping it against Bear’s collar. _Do you think we’ll ever have kids?_ He remembers the day like it was yesterday, remembers standing outside that sweet little girl’s new home, with John at his shoulder. He remembers how strange the words had felt, how startlingly domestic, and equally how _relieved_ he was that it was all over. He’d never expected a _dog_. “You ready?”

“Yes,” Harold says softly. “I’m ready for anything.” John glances up from Bear, and he smiles, softly this time. His blue eyes glitter in the light that streams in through the dusty windows, and Harold feels another twist in his gut, a leap of his own stomach.

“Let’s go,” John says, and Harold smiles as he stands.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to HMU on [Tumblr.](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com) Requests are always open.


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